All of Me
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. What she brought to his life, was completion.


**A/N: **Sat down one day after completing Human and this song by John Legend came on my playlist, and I couldn't resist. Sat down for three days and whipped this out. Hope you guys like this oneshot!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**All of Me**

**What would I do without your smart mouth?  
****Drawing me in, and you kicking me out  
****You've got my head spinning, no kidding, I can't pin you down**

_First of all, she was achingly beautiful._

He found her tucked away in the small corner of the café, reading a novel—Jane Austen by the looks of it—and he was a goner. Her sun-kissed blonde hair fell like silken waves of golden thread, her flawless complexion the envy of every other woman in the establishment, and advertently, his gaze fell to her rosy lips as she gnawed on her cuticle. So engrossed she was in the story that he had to clear his throat to garner her attention.

And then there were her eyes.

He had seen them countless times on print, in a close-up frame sprawled across a double-page spread, on billboards and buses and shop fronts, and graced on several front covers, but never like this. It was remarkable at most. They were twin pools of pure molten hazel, rings of green teetering the edges, and it knocked the breath right out of his person.

She regarded him steadily with a hint of wariness.

"Hello," she began, her voice a melodious tune. "Can I help you?"

It took him three embarrassing seconds to locate his speech, his mouth forming words he couldn't pronounce, but by some miracle, his limbs were moving, and then he was extending a hand out to her.

"Hi, I'm Sam Evans."

He watched in fascination as realization dawned on her, and those gorgeous features melted into a warm smile. She hopped to her feet and slid her smooth palm against his, and he prayed he wouldn't pass out from that contact alone. God, he was weak.

"The photographer," she beamed. "I'm Quinn Fabray."

Her introduction was unnecessary. Anybody within a block radius, to the population halfway round the world knew of her existence.

"I know," he idiotically mumbled in response, stupidity being a nervous habit.

"It's nice to finally meet you. Please have a seat," she gestured towards the empty chair. As he did so—paying extra care not to fall flat on his ass—she continued chatting breezily as though she wasn't aware that her mere presence alone caused a riot in his brainwaves. Heck, he wasn't coherent enough to carry out a decent conversation; a bloke could only hope.

"I've seen a lot of your works," she told him, crossing a toned leg over the other. "I'll have to admit that I was a little hesitant about it because you're a photojournalist by trade and I wasn't sure if you were what I was looking for, but Emma wouldn't stop going on about you so I had to see for myself what all the fuss was about."

He wasn't sure what to make of that.

"And what do you think?"

She looked thoughtful.

"I think you have an amazing way of capturing humanity."

And right at that very moment, he knew he had bollocksed up and done the dumbest thing.

He had fallen in love with a world-renowned supermodel.

* * *

**What's going on in that beautiful mind?  
****I'm on your magical mystery ride  
****And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright**

_Secondly, she was surprisingly pragmatic._

Sam didn't do studio shoots; it just wasn't how he worked. Sets and spotlights tended to make everything superficial, and it wasn't something Quinn represented. It made her agent squirm and question him at every opportunity, but they had a deal.

He was to propose a few sample shots of her—for her—and all he needed to do so was that little coffee place that she favored so much and a copy of _Mansfield Park_.

When he told her to be there at four, he hadn't expected to enter at half past three to find her already perched in the corner, a pair of black-rimmed glasses sitting on her nose and her hair up in a messy knot. She blended in, seeming right at home in her natural habitat, and it was an ethereal sight.

He had his camera out on autopilot—his most trusted analogue Lomo—and before she could be aware that he was there, Sam had snapped a few precious photos. Immediately he regretted needing to wait for the film to develop in his darkroom to view the image, but all the more, it was going to be worth it.

"Hey," he chirped, plopping down on the unoccupied seat in front of her. "You're early."

She shrugged, grinning coquettishly. "I had nothing better to do."

"Would you like anything to drink?" he asked graciously, sure that his mom would slap him if he failed his responsibilities as a true Southern gentleman.

"That depends."

He arched an eyebrow. "On what?"

"On whether or not you're buying," she quipped impishly, those hazel eyes glinting with mischief.

"Quinn Fabray, it would be an honor," he replied with equal playfulness.

She nodded. "White chocolate mocha with extra whipped cream then, please."

He couldn't mask his surprise fast enough, and he didn't miss how her mood darkened ever so slightly.

"What?" she deadpanned.

Words were failing him, and he felt like an utter fool for offending her so. She waited patiently, arms crossed over her chest, almost daring him to rectify the situation. It ought to scare him off because she was fire and ice all consumed in a single body, but she had never looked more beautiful.

"Would you like a scone or a muffin to go with that?" he offered instead.

She huffed, but appeared placated. "Blueberry, if you will."

He left to procure their food and beverages, and when he returned with his hands full, she was intently studying his camera, tongue poking out from between her teeth.

"Look, I'm sorry for before, you know," he stumbled on an apology. "I didn't mean it like that, really, and I mean no disrespect—"

"It's fine," she brushed him off nonchalantly, giving him an easy smile. "I should be used to the stereotypes by now, but I eat whatever the hell I want; screw the salad bar and celery sticks. It's depressing, and I'm not going to be that girl who compromises herself just to look good on print. If I want to binge on a bag of chips and a pint of ice cream, I'll jolly well do it."

He blinked as she pinched a corner off her muffin and tossed it into her mouth, not the least bit bothered by social decorum. In stubborn defiance, she deliberately chewed on the piece, almost challenging him to chastise her on inappropriate lady-like behavior. Smirking, he met her head on and mimicked her actions, making a point to exaggerate on his munching techniques.

"This is actually pretty good," he remarked.

She nodded. "I think you've learned one important lesson today, Mr. Evans."

The way her tongue curled around his name sent unmistakable stirrings down a specific part of his anatomy—a part that was about to cause him so much discomfort—and internally he cursed human evolution on such petty carnal desires.

"And what's that?"

"Never judge a book by its cover."

* * *

**My head's under water  
****But I'm breathing fine  
****You're crazy and I'm out of my mind**

_Thirdly, she had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge._

"I've been meaning to ask you about that Lomo of yours," was the first thing she said when she rang him up a day later while he was out procuring more films for his test shots, wanting to experiment with black-and-white photos. "I need to know where you got it."

He strolled out of the shop, chuckling. "I hope you're not planning on stealing it. I've seen the way you keep having eye-sex with that bad boy, and let me tell you, I don't like to share."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "It's an authentic Russian-made Zenit 11—refurbished from what I can tell—but they don't just sell them on the shelves anymore, so I'd like to know where you got it."

Tripping over his own two feet and almost having his shit sprawled over the pavement was horrifying and undignified enough, he was just thankful she wasn't there to witness it, but the careless way she had talked about one of his more prized possessions had caught him completely off guard.

"Erm—" he coughed. "Well, I—"

"And while we're at it," she ventured on, and he heard the sound of paper shuffling in the background. "How exactly did you capture that amazing shot of that little girl in Cairo? You couldn't have used a DSLR for that, could you? The depth perspective is almost impossible to achieve without an older technology—"

"Hang on, what?" he sputtered. "How'd you—what?"

"Listen, I'm going over to your place right now; you're not busy are you?"

He swore she was trying to smear his remains on the concrete floor. "I—I'm not—yeah, I'm not busy at the moment, but—"

"Great!" she chirped before promptly hanging up.

A full minute later, he was still standing, catatonic on the sidewalk, gaping down at his cellphone. It wasn't until it vibrated in his hand and a text from Quinn popped up regarding his preference on Chinese takeaway did he jolt himself out of his stupor.

He reckoned, then, that he had fallen a little bit more in love with her.

* * *

**'Cause all of me  
****Loves all of you  
****Love your curves and all your edges  
****All your perfect imperfections**

_Fourth, she was remarkably smart._

When she showed up half an hour later at his doorstep with bags of food, wearing a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a tie-dyed off-shoulder top with flip-flops and a canvas backpack, he wondered why it astounded him that she was a graduate of one of the country's finest Ivy League schools.

"Would you quit ogling my ass?"

He flushed a deep shade of crimson. "Yale?"

She shrugged her shoulders in that offhanded way he had come to associate her with. "You seem shocked."

"I'm impressed," he said, padding over the kitchen. "What would you like to drink?"

"Anything's fine."

He retrieved two cans of beer from the fridge because God forbid he was going to be able to make it through the rest of the evening without any alcohol in his system. For a moment, he considered fetching something stronger—tequila, vodka, whatever—but he didn't want to risk finding himself in compromising positions, especially with Quinn Fabray in his apartment.

She handed him a pair of wooden chopsticks. "You know how to use this, right?"

The urge to childishly stick his tongue out at her was overwhelming, but he managed to tamp it down, lest she saw him as an overgrown toddler.

"Yes, I do," he growled.

They settled into eating dinner in a peaceful silence until she broke it with a question.

"Who's your favorite photographer?"

"Steve McCurry," he replied immediately. "Without a doubt."

She tilted her head, contemplating his answer. "That's a little obvious, isn't it?" she commented, snapping her utensils in his direction. "His coverage on the Soviet invasion on the rebel-controlled areas of Afghanistan won the Robert Capa Gold Medal, so that doesn't do you any favors."

There was a noodle hanging from the corner of his mouth to which he hastily slurped up. It gave him a good three seconds to think of something witty to say.

"Two words: 'Afghan Girl'."

She set her takeaway box on the coffee table and took a sip of her beer. "Fair enough," she conceded with a nod. "I suppose being on the front cover of the _National Geographic_ has its merits."

"What about you?"

She gave it some consideration. "Jimmy Nelson."

His brows furrowed. "The baseball player?"

Gasping in indignation, she tossed a small chunk of chicken his way. "The photographer, you asshole."

He snickered. "And what do you like about Mr. Nelson?"

"His stunning visions, and his ability to bring his photos to life. His works are like art pieces; it blows my mind every time. That project he did—'Before They Pass Away'—was just pure genius."

Her illustrative words sparked a curiosity in him. "What exactly did you major in?"

A devilish grin lit her entire face up. "Mechanical engineering and materials science."

"You're kidding."

"My research on statistical mechanics of nonequilibrium systems was kind of a hit; my professor insisted I continue my work as his teaching assistant, but you know, this modeling gig came along…" she trailed off in such a blasé manner, one would think she was talking about the weather.

He carded his fingers through his shaggy blonde hair. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, I'm kind of brilliant."

* * *

**Give your all to me  
****I'll give my all to you  
****You're my end and my beginning  
****Even when I lose I'm winning**

_Fifth, she was adventurous._

He felt a surge of manly pride when she all but squealed the moment she saw his extensive camera collection. Like a kid in a toy store, her eyes twinkled as she took her time examining each and every one of the sets on display. The Lomo that she was interested in, though, was in his hands, and while she had her fun, he had his.

Through the lens, he watched as she picked one up with a triumphant whoop.

"The Bronica SQ," she announced giddily. "First introduced in 1958; this is a definite winner."

"Good choice," he agreed. "Did a wedding photo shoot once with that for the fun of it, and even though the bride complained that she looked repulsive on black-and-white, I thought the contrast worked really well."

She peeked through the viewfinder. "I've got a great idea."

The enthusiasm in her tone was infectious. "I'm listening."

"Let's do a photo hunt."

Sam couldn't remember when he last played that game—probably two years ago with Rachel Berry-Hudson's six-year-old daughter—but Quinn had that fiery determined look on her face and it was physically impossible to deny her anything, what with those stunning hazel eyes penetrating through his own boring green ones.

"You're on."

Fifteen minutes later, they were at the entrance of a nearby park, each armed with a camera of choice—analogue, of course—and a list that they needed to complete. She turned to him, practically bouncing on the spot, and it was going to be his first frame on the film. In fact, if he was being really honest, he couldn't care less about the game. He would happily indulge in her whims, regardless.

"You ready?"

He gave her a wink. "Always."

She took off down the path with him hot on her heels. The first few were relatively easy ones—a dog, a tree, some joggers, and even a bench—but capturing a bird required a bit of skill and a whole suitcase full of patience. He found a tiny sparrow perched on a water fountain and was quick to obtain a snapshot before it flew away in a flutter of wings.

When he spun around to declare himself victorious, Quinn was nowhere to be found.

"Quinn?" he called out. "Quinn!"

"Hush, you'll scare the birds," she chastised from somewhere above his head, and he glanced up to find her sitting precariously on a sketchy-looking branch, her feet suspended and dangling dangerously in midair.

"Shit, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed, feeling his heart thudding wildly in his chest. "Get down from there."

She rolled her eyes. "Would you relax?" she sighed. "I grew up in a farm. This is actually pretty tame compared to the stuff I used to get up to."

So help him God, she was going to give him a cardiac arrest.

"Would you just get down from there, please?"

"Alright, alright," she relented, and expertly descended back to the ground, totally unharmed. "See, not a scratch."

"You're completely mad."

"All the greatest people are."

* * *

**'Cause I give you all of me  
****And you give me all of you**

_Sixth, she was unabashedly passionate._

Quinn simply adored his test shots of her, which was great because he had spent an entire week—day and night—perfecting each one in his dark room. She had been away for a runway gig in Milan, so he wouldn't have her opinion till after she was back. Now, as he sat next to her on his leather sofa, that radiant smile on her soft features was quite possibly what he lived for, and he'd continue taking photos of her for the rest of his existing life if it meant she'd never stop.

"I love them; all of them," she gushed, flipping through the images in her hands. "They're amazing. You're amazing."

Sam reached up to rub sheepishly at the nape of his neck, wondering for a moment if she was just coddling him. He had been a nervous wreck the entire morning, unsure if he had met her standards, and even if his works were shit, he would expect her honest opinion.

"Yeah?"

She leaned in closer and met his gaze, open and earnest.

"Yes."

"Say it, then," he husked, their noses barely inches apart.

Her warm sweet breath caressed his cheek. "Sam Evans, you are a photographic genius."

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?"

She had her hands on the lapels of his flannel shirt, fingers curled, and with a sharp tug, she closed the gap between them. It was a mushing of mouths, a move to shut him up, but he had half the mind to continue running his gob if that was how she silenced him. She tasted like cookie dough ice cream and black coffee, her lips soft and pliant against his, but then he realized that his hands were still awkwardly jammed between their bodies, and that he really wanted to feel her curves beneath his fingertips.

"Wait, hang on," he murmured. "Let me just—"

She wasn't going to wait for anything, and before he was even able to register it, she had her legs on either side of his hips and straddling his lap.

"You talk too much."

He chuckled. "I think I don't talk enough."

Her hazel eyes blazed wantonly, a sultry arch of an eyebrow as she did a particularly delicious maneuver with her hips. An involuntary moan escaped his throat, and he was all too aware of the tight situation in his pants, sporting an erection now throbbing uncomfortably in the confines of his denims. He shifted a little in hopes of eliminating some of the ache, only to have his efforts be in vain when the friction did the complete opposite.

"Quinn…" he grated out. "This—you're—we—are you—"

"You're not making any sense," she snickered into the slope of his neck before peppering butterfly kisses up to his ear. "Enunciate."

He whimpered—a sound so not masculine, it was humiliating—when she took his lobe between her teeth in a playful nibble. "Minx."

"You like it."

He swooped in, capturing her lips in a languid kiss. "I love it."

It wasn't quite frankly the heart-felt confession or the pouring of emotions that he had envisioned, and she probably wouldn't have taken it in any other way beyond the surface, but the way she froze had alarm bells ringing in his head. Her spine had stiffened, her muscles tensed, and for the first time her expression was unreadable. A mask of blankness washed over her otherwise poignant exterior as she stared into his emerald orbs.

"Say that again."

Swallowing the lump lodged in his windpipe, he exhaled slowly. "I love you."

There was a hitch in her breath, her façade crumbling. "How is that possible? You barely know me."

"I think I know enough."

Her mouth clamped hard and sure over his with renewed ardency, their heated pashing fast escalating into something more. He groaned when she dragged her fingers through his scalp, his own hands exploring and reacquainting themselves with every inch of her until the feel of her through a layer of fabric was no longer sufficient. She must've read his mind because no sooner had the thought appeared was she shoving his button-down over his shoulders. He aided her in removing it, and then she was working on his T-shirt, ridding him of those pesky clothes.

"How long has it been for you?"

He could barely think straight; her fingers were drawing patterns against his chest and traveling lower towards the contours of his abdominals. She teased the sides of his hipbones, tracing the elastic band of his boxers, and his pulse sped up.

"Much too long," he sighed, fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. "May I?"

She appeared amused by his gentlemanly ways.

"Absolutely."

When he was entirely too slow for her liking, fumbling clumsily in his task, she took it upon herself to speed it up. In one swift motion, she had her top off and carelessly tossed aside.

"You're not going to just sit there and gawk at me all evening, are you?" she smirked, cocking an eyebrow.

Without bothering to reply, he tightened his grip and hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around his slim waist as he brought her to bed.

* * *

**How many times do I have to tell you  
****Even when you're crying you're beautiful too  
****The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood**

_Seventh, she was gracefully vulnerable._

He was already wide-awake when she stirred from her peaceful slumber. It was almost a shame because she looked so beautifully peaceful in her sleep, especially with the streams of sunlight filtering in through the curtains and caressing the side of her face. Her silky blonde hair fanned out across his pillow and she was pouting adorably with her hands tucked underneath her head. She made a tiny noise, and then her lashes fluttered as she lazily lifted her eyelids.

"Good morning."

The corner of her lips twitched in a drowsy smile. "Morning," she croaked, stretching her arms out, the swell of her breasts peeking out enticingly from beneath the duvet. "How long have you been up?"

Unable to resist, he rolled over to drop a kiss atop her right bosom before leisurely running his tongue across the supple flesh. She hummed in pleasure, the sweetest of sounds, and he fingered the edge of the covers, slowly drawing it downwards to reveal all that she was. In the softness of the morning, she glowed in shades of pink and yellow against the contrast of his dark blue sheets. It made for a breath-taking sight, an equivalent to the Seven Wonders of the World, and Sam dreaded the fact that his camera wasn't within reach.

"A while," he replied, nibbling on his favorite spot on the side of her ribs, where she had a quote tattooed in elegant calligraphy.

"And you've been staring at me all that time?"

He shrugged, unsure why she was so surprised, and started to peel back the comforters when she stopped him. There was a flicker of reluctance in her striking honey-colored eyes as she pursed her lips together in a thin line.

"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously.

"It's just," she paused, tugging the covers self-consciously over her chest. "It's just different in the morning."

His brows furrowed in confusion even as he continued stroking her through the cotton. "What do you mean?"

She sucked in a lungful of air. "Things just look different in the morning than they do at night, you know."

And then he saw it; that admirable crack in her confidence, of not knowing just how incredibly beautiful she was. It was humbling, how a sudden rush of affection for her crashed over his person, like the first plunge of a roller coaster; that she didn't know the extent of her worth.

He raked his gaze over her features, cataloguing every single detail, from the barely noticeable scar on her hairline to the straight plane of her delicate nose, to the flush in her cheeks and down to the teeth biting on her lower lip.

"You're still the same Quinn Fabray to me," he told her, voice slightly hoarse. "That brilliant woman who loves reading Jane Austen and climbing trees, and is notoriously addicted to cameras; that same person whose radiance exudes beyond just the photographs in magazines and on billboards. You're still her."

He rendered her speechless for a while.

"I need to tell you something, Sam," she breathed, her stare still locked onto his.

"What is it?"

He watched as she swallowed.

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

A burst of fireworks exploded in his entire person, spiraling like ribbons through his veins and charging through each nerve.

"You see me in a way nobody else does."

"And what way is that?"

"Like a normal human being."

* * *

**You're my downfall, you're my muse  
****My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues  
****I can't stop singing, it's ringing, in my head for you**

_Eighth, she was also completely headstrong._

It became difficult; her life and his. She was everywhere and nowhere all at once, jumping from cities to countries, coast to coast, and hardly back home long enough before she was whisked away again to be the face of some other high-end designer. His photographs of her made headlines everywhere. Magazine publishers and advertising agencies were requesting for him left and right, and then he was too busy for anything else. They were never in the same place at the same time; the strain in their budding relationship grew apparent with each passing day.

His next job entailed shadowing an up-and-coming actress by the name of Santana Lopez, whose reputation preceded her. Paparazzi had her painted as an outrageous diva on set and tabloids loved creating scandal out of every single thing, but her manager had wanted to showcase a different side to the public to generate a more positive image. However, it fast became blatantly clear that the rumors were unfortunately, in fact, true.

She was a downright nightmare, strutting around, insisting that he only capture her best angles and that every shot required a touch-up on her make-up and clothes. It was obnoxious, and she hadn't so much as acknowledged his presence from the moment he arrived. She snapped at everybody, including her personal assistant—a petite Asian girl called Tina Cohen-Chang—and caused a fuss over the amount of caramel found in her Macchiato, and he was fast developing a migraine.

"I'm terribly sorry on her behalf, Mr. Evans," Tina apologized profusely for the umpteenth time in over ten minutes. "She's just had a bad day and she's usually cranky when things don't go as she want to, and—"

"It's alright," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And please, call me Sam."

"Hey, you there!"

Speak of the devil.

Reluctantly, he turned around to face the wrath of the she-devil. The Latina had one of those oversized sunglasses on, with the make-up artist fussing over the unwanted shine on her forehead.

"Yes, Santana?" he replied warily.

"I'm just wondering if you're really a professional photographer," she remarked flippantly, gesturing towards his tools of trade in his hands. "Your camera looks like it fucking belongs to the middle ages or something. Were you somehow stuck in the early 60s and forgot to take a leap into the 21st century? Where's your laptop and all the digital stuff, and the lighting here sucks. I don't want to turn out looking shit because of your incompetence to do your job."

Next to him, Tina winced.

"Then perhaps you'd like to find some other photographer with their fancy DSLR cameras who wouldn't mind working with such an atrocious individual such as yourself."

There was a collective round of gasps.

Santana was fuming mad, her rage coming in rolls, her chest heaving as she seethed on the spot. As Tina took a tentative step away from him, the outraged starlet marched over with a gait of a predator, her dark eyes flashing around the thick layers of mascara. Before he could open his mouth to say anything else, the flat of her palm had come in contact with the side of his face.

"You're fired."

He didn't need to be told twice, and quite frankly, he very gladly packed up his stuff and walked off, wanting nothing to do with Satan's spawn. Sullen and irritable, he trudged back to his apartment, only to be completely taken by surprise when he saw his gorgeous girlfriend waiting in the living room.

"Hey," she grinned, a breath of fresh air in his otherwise shitty morning.

"Hi," he exclaimed gleefully, crossing the space to catch her in an embrace, lifting her off her feet as he inhaled the sweet scent of her vanilla shampoo. "So glad you're back. How'd you get in?"

She adjusted the front of her jumper when he gently placed her back on the ground. "I broke in," she informed him cheekily, tongue poking out in sheepish guilt. "I've always been really handy with a nail file."

"How long will you be in town for?" he asked, though he wasn't expecting much. "A day? Two days? Maybe you'll stick around for longer than twelve hours this time."

"Sam—"

He raised his hands, already familiar with how this conversation was going to play out. They'd start taking jibes at each other's career choice and their inability to prioritize their relationship over everything else, because it was a hard knock world out there and nobody could survive just on love. They were romantics, not idiots.

"No, sorry," he interrupted, looking defeated. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just been a tough day."

"Heard what Santana did," she chuckled. "She's always been a major bitch, but it wasn't worth a slap, truly."

He rubbed at the sore spot, scowling. "She was being a fucking pain."

"She sabotaged my shoot once," she divulged with a grimace, trailing her hands up the length of his arms in an attempt to soothe his distress. "It was a big client, too, and we had to wear these expensive gowns, and she had been the designer's number one choice to open for the show, until they decided they needed a more professional model to kick it off. God, she was furious that day and gave everybody hell. She hated that I was the one to wear the dress, like I even cared, but she threw a bitch fit and hid it. Ten minutes before the show was about to start—the designers yelling at me and all—one of the backstage crew found it in the dumpster."

Sam's eyes widened. "What happened, then?"

She shrugged, circling her arms loosely around his waist. "I told the designers I didn't mind not opening for them, that by all means, Santana could do it. She was ecstatic of course, but then they gave me her dress to wear instead."

"Jesus," he chortled. "Did she flip?"

"Completely. In fact, she fought me for it," Quinn huffed. "Ugly clawing and the whole nine yards, even threw a shoe at me."

"So what did you do?"

"I just went on; there was still a show to do after all, and did my thing, walked back and tripped her on the runway."

He choked on his laughter, completely smitten because she never ceased to amaze him. His girlfriend was such a badass; the thought of Santana Lopez falling flat on her face in a pile of taffeta and chiffon vanished any remnants of his sour mood.

"God, you have no idea how turned on I am right now."

Her hands journeyed south, and all of a sudden, she was cupping him through his trousers, purring appreciatively at the hardened bulge that promised a wonderful night romping around in bed.

**My head's under water  
****But I'm breathing fine  
****You're crazy and I'm out of my mind**

"I think I can make a guess," she winked.

* * *

**'Cause all of me  
****Loves all of you  
****Love your curves and all your edges  
****All your perfect imperfections**

_Ninth, his family adored her._

His mom wouldn't stop pestering him; had actually blackmailed him into flying home for the holidays and threatened to disown him if he so much as landed in Tennessee without his girlfriend by his side. When he relayed his predicament to her—after a mind-blowing round of lovemaking on the kitchen counter—she collapsed in a bout of giggles where they ended up rolling for a bit on the floor.

"You don't have to bribe me with sex for that, you know," she said breathlessly, pushing the strands of hair out of her eyes.

Sprawled out next to her, Sam laughed. "Yeah, that was just icing on the cake."

She swatted playfully at him. "Shut up."

"So you'll go?" he asked eagerly.

She dropped a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Yes."

A week later, they found themselves standing on his family's front porch, and the instant the door flew open to reveal his mom on the other side, he was swept into a bone-crushing hug. It was marginally embarrassing—he might have grimaced a bit—but then he saw the wistfulness in Quinn's eyes and knew that he was being a bit of a git. After all, he didn't visit often, he suppose he could deal with a bit of coddling.

"Oh, let me guess," Mary Evans chirped before he could begin the introductions. "You must be Quinn."

Her smile was every bit as charming as she was. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Evans."

"Nonsense, please, call me Mary."

And then she was whisked away into the house. His siblings took to her almost immediately—his little brother blushing every time Quinn so much as spoke two words to him and his sister insisting that they play with her toy ponies—and it was really endearing. It wasn't until he received that discreet nod of approval from his dad did an overwhelming sense of relief wash through his soul.

"Wow, they must really like you, then, to allow us to sleep in the same room," he snickered, leaning against the doorframe as he watched her unpack.

She glanced up at him, the uncertainty lingering in her otherwise flawless features. "You think so?" she asked, tucking several strands of her blonde hair behind her ear.

He crossed the distance to envelop her in his arms, dropping a chaste peck on the crown of her head. "I know so. In fact, I think Stacey and Stevie want you to permanently move in with us. I'm sure mom would love to have you around, you know, because she absolutely enjoys recounting my childhood moments."

She tilted her head to the side. "What about your dad?"

Tightening his hold on her, Sam shrugged his shoulders the best he could. "He just wants me to be happy."

"And are you happy?"

"Absolutely."

Christmas morning saw a spectacle of gift exchanges, with the younger ones leading the troops. Wrapping paper littered the carpet, boxes of toys discarded haphazardly for what actually contained inside, and there were a couple of woolen scarves and socks, but he knew his best gift was his gorgeous girlfriend and the way she lit up in tandem with her smile. Pictures were taken—he had close to five rolls of film to develop when they got back—but those captured moments, those were the ones that he would cherish most.

The day after New Year, just as they were about to head to the airport, his dad pulled him to the side and slipped a small box into his palm. He didn't need to look to know what was inside, and a chill of panic flared in his heart.

"Dad—"

"You have to be a downright idiot not to marry her, Sam," his old man told him wisely, a mixture of emotions on his angular face. "Your mom agrees."

The words were trapped in his chest as father and son exchanged heavy, knowing glances. Fingers curled instinctively around the object in his hand, cherishing it in his hold. The idea both scared and thrilled him in so many different ways. His thoughts drifted towards the unspoken direction of their futures together—his and hers—and how he was so sure that he couldn't imagine one without her in it.

When he pictured Quinn Fabray in a stunning white wedding dress, walking down the aisle of a church like a heaven-sent Goddess, he couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face as a million sparks of fireworks burst in the pit of his stomach.

"You know what you have to do."

With a parting slap to his back, Dwight Evans left his side to join his wife in the living room. The sound of Quinn's melodious laughter rang high throughout the house, followed by a gleeful squeal from his sister, and an image of a tiny blonde toddler waddling toothlessly popped in his head.

**Give your all to me  
****I'll give my all to you  
****You're my end and my beginning  
****Even when I lose I'm winning  
****'Cause I give you all of me  
****And you give me all of you**

It was all the boost he needed.

* * *

**Give me all of you  
****Cards on the table, we're both showing hearts  
****Risking it all, though it's hard**

_Tenth, she loved him; absolutely, unashamedly, unreservedly._

He could go about listing the rest of what he loved about her, but there weren't enough adjectives in the dictionary to describe them all. Still, nothing—not even flying to the moon—would have mattered if she didn't love him back.

What she brought to his life, was completion.

**'Cause all of me  
****Loves all of you  
****Love your curves and all your edges  
****All your perfect imperfections**

It showed in everything she did—each lingering look, each spectacular smile, each graze of her fingers, each breath of her sigh, each whisper of his name—and perhaps he still couldn't believe his incredible luck, but he wasn't going to question it, until it was time to take the plunge.

There was a gift sitting on the kitchen counter when she arrived home from a dreadfully long photo shoot. It was nothing overly fancy—a white box with a red bow at most—but it was enough to pique her interest. She was dainty in her movements, and what lay inside made her gasp, her hand flying to her mouth.

It was his precious Zenit 11.

"It's yours, if you want."

She whipped her head around as he nervously approached, a lopsided grin on his full lips.

"Sam—"

"On one condition," he added, snaking his arms around her slim waist.

**Give your all to me  
****I'll give my all to you  
****You're my end and my beginning  
****Even when I lose I'm winning  
****'Cause I give you all of me  
****And you give me all of you**

One gracefully-sculpted brow sprung up. "Oh?"

He leaned in, his mouth hovering over her ear.

"Quinn Fabray," he whispered. "Marry me?"

**I give you all of me  
****And you give me all of you**

* * *

**A/N:** The end! Awwwww…how sweet and fluffy was that? Lol! I couldn't resist; I mean, I heard this song, and I just had to. THA is in the mix, it's in progress, I promise! It's slow, but it's moving along. Cheers!

Song used: "All of Me" by John Legend


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